Christmas Carolling
by Virginiana
Summary: December 1940: The Nazis have smashed their way across Europe and Britain stands alone, fighting to survive against overwhelming odds. Sam tries to bring Yuletide cheer during the darkest Christmas of the war.
1. Chapter 1

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 _This is a re-post of another story I wrote some years ago and posted to another Internet board. It's set during the second Christmas of the war, which has to have been the darkest and most depressing of them all. I got to wondering how our various characters would feel about a holiday based on peace, joy and love during such gloomy and frightening times. Next thing I knew, my Muse had given me this idea._

 **Part One**

 _Early December 1940_

"What's on your mind, Sam?"

DCS Foyle glanced at the young woman sitting next to him in the front seat. For the past twenty minutes, as she guided the Wolseley down quiet country lanes, she had been quiet. Too quiet, he'd realised. In the seven months since she'd appeared at his office door with her salute and her wide-eyed curiosity, he had grown accustomed to her chatter. He'd even grown to enjoy it - within limits, of course. But he had come to learn that with Sam, protracted periods of silence usually meant that something was troubling her.

The girl braked as she manoeuvred the heavy car round a sharp curve. "Actually, sir, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. I was wondering … well, I was wondering if it would be all right if I left work a bit early every now and then over the next few weeks."

Foyle's eyebrows rose. "Why?"

"Christmas carolling."

"Christmas carolling?"

She coloured slightly. "Yes, sir. There's a group of us – some other girls I've come to know - well, we thought it might be nice to go carolling at some of the bases round about Hastings. Doing our bit to cheer up our boys, you know. We've been practising for a few weeks now and we've made arrangements to sing at several places, but they want us to come early, round seven, and I'll have trouble getting there in time if - well - " she trailed off, realising she was babbling. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, thinking that she hadn't felt so nervous making a request of her boss since the day she'd asked him to intervene with her father. _Don't be so nervous,_ she scolded herself inwardly. _He didn't let you down that time, did he?_

He didn't let her down this time either. "Shouldn't be a problem," he replied easily, pushing his hat back on his head. "Just let me know which days you'll be wanting to take off early … it's this turn just ahead, Sam, on the left." She drew into a farmyard and parked, barely enough time to stammer her thanks before Foyle had alighted, intent only upon his current investigation.

* * *

That afternoon Paul Milner's tall frame appeared in the doorway of the station kitchen. "Any chance of a cup of tea?"

"Of course," Sam replied, pouring him a steaming mug. "And I wanted to tell you - you were right. He said yes."

"Who said yes?" Milner added a careful half-teaspoon of sugar and stirred.

"Mr Foyle. About the carolling. Remember? You were right. Didn't object at all. Good thing, too. We've been rehearsing three nights a week and Gladys would be furious if I wasn't there." She nibbled a ginger biscuit, noticing how preoccupied the sergeant looked. "How's the case coming?"

"Slowly," he said. "I've been going round and round with it but I just can't find the proof I need for an arrest."

"Don't worry, you'll solve it," she said confidently. "Tell you what. Just let me take this to Mr Foyle and then you can tell me about it. Perhaps explaining it all will help you work it out." She flashed him one of her quick smiles and left the room, cup and saucer in hand.

Milner chuckled to himself as he drew out a chair at the scrubbed wooden table, knowing exactly what she was after but unable to resist her quicksilver charm. She was so eager to be a part of everything that went on at the station, and he supposed it didn't do any harm to bring her up to date on the black-market clothing ring he was investigating.

He sipped his steaming tea, looking round the kitchen and thinking what a difference Sam's arrival had made. It had always been a dingy little room but she had done her best to brighten it. As an MTC volunteer seconded to the police solely to serve as driver to a ranking officer, the she had felt rather out of place in the all-male atmosphere of the Hastings police station. She had no other duties and no space to call her own during the long hours she spent sitting around waiting to drive Mr Foyle here and there. While no one dared to object openly, she was aware that many of the policemen regarded her as a feminine interloper.

The kitchen had provided the obvious solution. It was out of the way, close to Foyle's office and, by its very nature, indisputably a female province. She'd given the place a through scrubbing, arranged the crockery and biscuit tins attractively on the shelves and splurged on colourful new tea-towels. That accomplished, no one had objected when she'd set herself up a makeshift area in the corner. Her arrangements were modest enough - a nail or two in the wall to hold her coat and cap, an age-spotted looking-glass. A small battered table provided her a place to sit as well as a drawer to store her meagre possessions.

Thus established, Sam introduced a welcome innovation to the Constabulary. Every afternoon she boiled the kettle and brewed a large pot of tea. The overworked policemen soon fell in the habit of dropping by the kitchen at around half-past four, especially when she began setting out a plate of off-ration digestive biscuits or other small treats she'd managed to forage. Later she would remove her jacket, roll up her sleeves and tackle the washing-up, tidying her little demesne. Gradually even the crustiest old sergeant had come to accept her, and she felt it a small but real triumph when the popularity of "Sam's tea-time" necessitated the purchase of a second teapot.

* * *

Foyle rubbed one hand wearily over his aching neck muscles as he reached for his cup. He'd been so intent on his case notes that he'd barely acknowledged Sam's delivery, but now that he'd sorted out a complicated bit of evidence he allowed himself a break. His mind returned to what Sam had mentioned in the car this morning: Christmas carolling. He'd been doing his best to ignore the approaching season, but his driver's request had brought it to the fore.

 _Christmas_ , he thought. All very well and good to go sing for our boys in uniform, but as far as he was concerned, if there was ever a year to ignore the holiday this had to be it. How could anyone be expected to get into a Yuletide spirit? France had fallen, Holland had fallen, Denmark and Norway and Belgium had fallen and now Britain stood alone against the Nazi juggernaut. Sailors and merchant seamen were dying on the North Atlantic by the thousands as untold tons of shipping were sunk by U-boat patrols. London and other cities suffered unspeakable bombing raids night after night in which thousands more civilians had been killed. The fear of a German invasion had receded slightly, but it still loomed as a terrifying possibility for 1941. God, in short, seemed very far away; it seemed rather too much to ask for people to shelve their worries and celebrate the birth of His Son.

Then there were his own dismal circumstances. Still stuck here in Hastings doing his same job despite his repeated efforts to arrange a transfer to more meaningful war work. Worry about Andrew a constant companion – not just for his survival, but also for his emotional state. Every time he saw the lad he could see the effects of the strain etched more deeply in his son's face. How long, Foyle wondered, before he was pushed to some sort of breaking point? That is, if he wasn't killed first …

The thought that this could be his son's last Christmas made his stomach twist. He would be spending it in a dispersal hut, kitted out and ready to scramble. He remembered the happy Christmases of Andrew's childhood. The smells of mince pies and plum pudding wafting from the kitchen. Boyish laughter in the sitting room. The sparkling of coloured lights on the Christmas tree. Carols on the wireless. Rosalind's sweet smile.

 _Rosalind_. The truth was that Christmas had been empty for him since she had been gone. Nearly nine years now. He had tried his best, of course, for Andrew's sake – the tree, the brightly wrapped gifts, a turkey or perhaps a duck roasting in the oven – but the efforts had been hollow. For him, the true spirit of Christmas seemed to have died with his wife. Each year he had tried to summon some semblance of that inner peace and joy he remembered from bygone times, but it had been elusive. And this year, with the war and all his worries, he couldn't even summon the will to try.

Very well then. He would do his best to ignore the holiday. Shouldn't be too difficult, as Andrew had already told him he wasn't to be granted Christmas leave. With food rationed so strictly, there would be no feasting and only the simplest of gifts even when his son did manage a visit home. He had received several invitations to Christmas dinner, including one from his friend and colleague Hugh Reid, but he'd declined them all. He would spend the day alone, he'd decided. Perhaps he'd tie a new fly. He might even go down to the river and try it out if the weather wasn't too cold.

He looked down and realised he'd finished his tea. Setting the cup neatly back in its saucer, he rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter and resumed his case notes.


	2. Chapter 2

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 **Part Two**

 _A Week Later_

Voices rose sweetly in song from St. Clement's church hall. Seven young women, all well bundled against the chill of the unheated room, were rehearsing "Once in Royal David's City" in a complex three-part harmony when one of the company waved the rest to silence in mid-verse.

"No, no, _no_. Margaret, you're going flat again!"

"Sorry, Gladys," the offending singer apologized. "I'm trying, really I am, but this arrangement is terribly tricky, especially _a capella_. Couldn't we simplify it? Drop the descant? My feet are dreadfully cold."

"No, we could _not_ ," their leader said firmly. Daughter of a Methodist minister, Gladys Vaughan was a brisk woman in her early thirties with snapping dark eyes and tawny hair drawn back in a bun. She had been raised in the rich Welsh choral tradition and had spent several years as choir mistress in a girls' school before the war. Now she was "doing her bit" as a typist for the ATS but, missing her old life, had organised this carolling scheme as a way to stay in touch with vocal music. The singers she had recruited found her standards alarmingly high, but there was no denying her musical gifts.

Gladys had very definite ideas about the entire venture, from the songs they would sing to how they should dress. Sam had expected only to perform simple renditions of expected carols, but under Gladys' tutelage the makeshift choir had not only mastered complicated harmonies to familiar tunes, but also learned one or two new and very challenging pieces of music. She insisted that the carols they sang be neither too sentimental nor too jolly but should be traditional English hymns chosen to bring their listeners a touch of Christmas cheer and hope without inspiring too much homesickness. Of course, no German carols could be considered.

"We need to give this our very best," she cajoled now in her rich Welsh accent. "The boys deserve no less. Tomorrow night is our first performance so we need to get this right. Just concentrate, everyone, please. Don't think about your feet; plenty of our brave Forces suffer terribly from the cold so we can certainly bear a bit of chill. Margaret, follow Harriet; she'll help you stay on pitch. And altos, please try to _blend_ with the sopranos, not drown them out! Try it again, now. From the bridge. _And_ -" she counted off a rhythm with her hand and they launched into the song again.

When they had finally performed to Gladys' satisfaction, she called an end to the rehearsal. "Well done, ladies. Be here tomorrow night at six-fifteen sharp. The base is sending a car for us and we don't want to keep them waiting."

"Are you _sure_ we can't wear party frocks?" asked Penelope, a WAAF plotter, in a wistful tone. "I've got the _loveliest_ lilac silk … "

"Certainly not," said Gladys very firmly. "We are _not_ nightclub singers! How can we expect to be regarded seriously if we're dressed like the Andrews sisters? Moreover, we are singing _religious_ music, Penny. By rights we ought to be in choir robes, perhaps, but barring that, uniform should do very well."

* * *

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 _A Fortnight Later, Late Afternoon_

Foyle and his colleague Chief Superintendent Hugh Reid sat together in his office struggling over the duty roster. Available manpower was stretched thin in the best of circumstances these days; trying to arrange the rota so that each man could have a few consecutive days off for Christmas required all their concentration. They had nearly cobbled together a workable solution when there was a quiet tap at the door.

"Come," he called absently, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He barely glanced up as his driver entered, engrossed with the task at hand. It was only when she said, "Sir?" that he gave her his full attention.

She was standing in front of the desk, hesitation on her face, a dirty teacup in each hand. "I just wanted to let you know … I'll need to leave a bit early today, if that's all right."

"Right. That's fine, Sam." She departed with a nod and a small smile, intent on finishing her washing-up before her departure. She didn't see the quizzical look Hugh Reid directed at Foyle as she closed the door softly behind her.

Ten minutes later she was spreading her tea-towel out to dry when Reid came into the kitchen. "Christopher tells me you've got some sort of group going 'round singing Christmas carols," he said without preamble.

"Yes, that's right," she replied, a little surprised by his interest. "We're carolling at all the bases near Hastings. And the hospitals. Mr Foyle didn't object, so -"

"Any chance you could give us a few songs at our Christmas party here at the station? Next week, the twenty-third. I'm organising it, and I'm afraid it's going to be a bit of a dull party, what with the short-staffing and the rationing and what-not, and we could do with something to liven things up. What do you say?"

"Oh!" Sam felt the colour rise in her cheeks. "Well, I – I suppose we could. I can ask the other girls if they're free that night, at any rate."

"Jolly good. Thanks, Sam." Reid departing, helping himself the last bit of shortbread as he left.

She thought about his request as she bundled herself into her coat and gloves. The carolling had met with unexpected success over the past fortnight. The little ensemble had been hailed enthusiastically at every performance and requests had poured in from several additional venues. They had visited at Army, RAF and Canadian Army bases, singing to mess halls and lounges packed with eager listeners. Sam had thoroughly enjoyed the whole venture, especially the night they visited Andrew's base. They had managed to snatch a few minutes together afterwards, an unexpected bonus as she had seen little of him lately. Singing at the hospitals, on the other hand, had been a distressing reminder of the horrible damage war inflicted on men's bodies. The scars, the bandages and the missing limbs were heartbreaking to behold. But she had steeled herself to focus upon the men's faces, as she had learnt to do while befriending Milner, and had quickly ceased to notice the injuries.

Yes, she thought as she pedalled her bicycle toward St. Clement's, this Christmas carolling was proving to be more rewarding than she had expected. As a vicar's daughter, Sam had grown up in church choirs and had always enjoyed singing, but this had turned out to be something else again. The challenge of the music, the camaraderie with the other girls and the delight on the men's faces were deeply satisfying. It was as if the singing was fulfilling some hitherto-unsuspected creative urge deep within her. Feeling slightly abashed by the strength of her feelings, she had spoken to no one about how much the experience had come to mean to her.

And now, she thought ruefully, Mr Reid wanted them to sing for the station Christmas party. While the notion made her rather nervous, she decided she was being silly. Didn't policemen need a bit of Christmas cheer as well as soldiers? Goodness knew the officers could use a boost in morale. Look at Mr Foyle – he hardly smiled at all anymore since Andrew had been posted to a squadron. And there was Milner, still struggling with the pain and restrictions of his amputation. That wife of his was no help, Sam knew, though Milner had yet to utter an accusing word. And most of the other men had worries, too, thanks to the war.

She alighted from her bicycle at the church hall, her mind made up. She would ask Gladys if they could squeeze in one more performance. It shouldn't take too much convincing – after all, they'd sung at everyone else's base, so why not hers? It was, she decided, the least she could do.


	3. Chapter 3

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 **Part Three**

 _23 December 1940_

 _Early evening_

By half-past seven the Hastings Constabulary's annual Christmas party was getting underway in the station waiting room. A meagre array of refreshments, mostly biscuits and tea sandwiches contributed by police wives, was arranged on a trestle table by Sylvia Reid, the Chief Superintendent's wife. Liquid refreshment consisted of bottles of ginger beer and cider and a bowl of rather watery fruit punch, all non-alcoholic since some of the officers were still on duty. A subdued buzz of conversation began to rise as the room gradually filled.

From his post by the door, where he and his wife were greeting new arrivals, Hugh Reid surveyed the assembled company. The contingent of policemen was augmented by several ARP wardens along with the usual complement of wives and children. It came as little surprise to Hugh, however, that his friend Christopher was not among them.

 _Still working_ , he thought. _Might not put in an appearance at all if he can avoid it_. Reid had known Christopher Foyle for more than fifteen years, had witnessed how his friend had thrown himself into his work after he was widowed. He had also noticed Christopher's reluctance to join in the holiday festivities, which had also begun with his wife's death. And this year, with Andrew on active service with the RAF, he knew Foyle had even less reason to keep Christmas. Reid frowned, wishing he could find a way to break through his friend's grief and loneliness, before his wife's nudge brought him back to his duties as host.

* * *

Hugh Reid wasn't wrong. Foyle was in the evidence room, sorting through several crates confiscated from a black-market clothing dealer they had arrested that morning. The room was tucked away in a back corner of the station, too far from the waiting area for him to make out more than the faintest party noises even if he hadn't been concentrating on the task at hand. The job of sorting through the garments to determine from which shops they had been stolen could have waited until the following week, but he had gladly seized the excuse to delay his arrival at the party.

He was just re-folding a pair of ugly tweed knickerbockers when a new sound reached his ears. Was that … music? He set the trousers to one side and moved closer to the door, brow furrowing. _Greensleeves_ , he thought. Without thinking he stepped out into the corridor, the better to hear the faint the strains of song:

 _"This, this is Christ the King_

 _Whom shepherds guard and angels sing_

 _Hail, hail, to bring Him laud_

 _The babe, the Son of Mary …"_

Almost of their own volition Foyle's feet carried him round the corner, past kitchen and offices to the double doors that led out to the waiting room. He pushed one open and peered out. Had someone brought a gramophone into the station? Or was it a wireless? Or could it be …

The room was crowded and rather poorly lit, due to wartime wattage restrictions, but between shoulders and heads he could glimpse the cluster of young women standing close together under a hanging light-bulb. They were singing the ancient tune, a favourite of his since boyhood, as sweetly, as purely as he'd ever heard it.

 _"So bring Him incense, gold and myrrh_

 _Come peasant, king to own Him_

 _The King of Kings, salvation brings_

 _Let loving hearts enthrone Him."_

He slipped silently through the open door and let it swing shut, his eyes glued upon the little group of singers. His eyes widened when he spied his driver in the back row, momentarily nonplussed until he remembered something she'd mentioned several times recently. _Of course_ , he thought. _Christmas carolling_. But surely she hadn't said anything about singing here at the station, had she?

 _"Raise, raise a song on high_

 _The Virgin sings her lullaby_

 _Joy, joy for Christ is born_

 _The Babe, the Son of Mary."_

He watched, captivated, asthe carolended on a sweetly drawn-out note. Without pausing for applause, one of the girls sounded three low notes on a pitch-pipe and they immediately launched into another carol. Irresistibly drawn, he studied the singers more closely as "Adeste Fideles" washed over the room.

" _O come, all ye faithful_

 _Joyful and triumphant_

 _O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem …"_

All seven girls, he noticed, were in uniform – three WAAFs in RAF blue, two brown-clad ATS privates and a lone WREN in black mixed with Sam's MTC olive drab. Despite the severe garb, flat service shoes and regulation hairstyles, they looked every bit as fresh and wholesome as they sounded. They looked, in fact, like exactly what they were – ordinary English girls singing traditional English carols, bringing Yuletide cheer to their war-weary fellows.

All the singers had pleasant voices, though they lacked the operatic sophistication one heard in wireless broadcasts from the Albert Hall. And yet they were pouring their souls into the music with a sweet sincerity that Foyle found unexpectedly moving.

" _O, come let us adore Him_

 _O, come let us adore Him_

 _O, come let us adore Him_

 _Christ the Lord!"_

He watched the play of emotion on his driver's face as she sang. Sam's features were transfigured by a serenity he had never seen before, her eyes half-closed as she concentrated, seemingly fixed upon some inner vision. Carol followed carol – "O Little Town of Bethlehem", "In the Bleak Midwinter", "Away in a Manger", "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear", "The Holly and the Ivy", "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" – each pure, each lovely, voices harmonising softly. Some verses were sung in duets or trios, sopranos chiming in a sweet descant over the melody. He stood transfixed as each familiar, beloved tune made his heart swell a little more within him.

Glancing around him he saw his own feelings echoed on the faces of his fellow police officers. His eyes lingered for a long moment on Milner, standing tall and silent in a shadowy corner, his eyes glowing with emotion as he drank in the music. His sergeant's expression reminded Foyle forcibly that he wasn't the only with burdens to bear this Christmas. Milner, he knew, was still struggling to come to terms with the loss of his leg, and the long hours he spent at work suggested that all was not well in his home life.

Foyle had lost count of how many carols they had sung when the girl with the pitch-pipe sounded a single note and a lone voice, high and clear, sounded forth like a beam of light in the darkness:

" _I wonder as I wander out under the sky_

 _How Jesus the Saviour did come for to die_

 _For poor on'ry people like you and like I_

 _I wonder as I wander out under the sky"_

It was a tune he had never heard before, in a minor key and plaintive enough to wring tears from a stone. The melody seemed to echo Foyle's longing for Rosalind, for everything he had lost when she went and for what he feared he might yet lose if Andrew was taken from him, too. The other singers chimed in softly on the second verse before the WAAF soloist repeated the first stanza, her voice lingering effortlessly on an impossibly high, hauntingly beautiful note:

" _I wonder as I wan-der … out under the sky …"_

There was a long moment of stunned silence, but before any of the listeners could collect themselves to applaud the pitch-pipe was sounding again. Each girl seemed to draw a deep breath and Foyle saw one or two exchange nervous glances before another soloist began.

 _"Hark how the bells_

 _Sweet silver bells_

 _All seem to say_

 _Throw cares away"_

A second girl joined in, harmonising with the first:

 _"Christmas is here_

 _Bringing good cheer_

 _To young and old_

 _Meek and the bold"_

It was unlike any music he had ever heard before. A third girl joined in, then a fourth and a fifth, until all seven voices were weaving a rich tapestry of sound. Foyle was amazed. How was it possible for human voices sound so much like bells? Softly at first, the song swelled, voices chasing each other round and round, ringing louder and louder until they peaked in a glorious crescendo:

 _"Gaily they ring_

 _While people sing_

 _Songs of cheer_

 _Christmas is here_

 _Merry, merry, merry Christmas!_

 _Merry, merry, merry Christmas!"_

Revelling in the music, he was sorry when the bells began to fade, when the voices dropped lower and quieter until there was only one girl left singing. Sam sang the final notes alone, knowing that every listener in the room was riveted:

" _Ding, dong, ding … dong!"_

While those around him burst into enthusiastic applause, Foyle closed his eyes for a long moment, the better to savour the peace and hope that stirred deep within him. Somehow, despite all his cares, Sam and her little group of carollers had given him a sense of Christmas joy, the first time he'd felt it in many years. He felt that he had been given a precious gift.

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 ** _Finis_**


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